Bruises

Ch.12-A Walk Through the Past

Sometimes there was that one thing you really had to do. No questions asked, no further thinking about it. You just had to do it.

I found myself in that situation three days later, sitting in my Camry, knowing I had today and today only to get it done. Another round of snow was forecasted to sweep in across the whole New England portion of the United States, and getting caught in that on the road was the last thing I needed happening to me.

The neighborhood where I was born and grew up was just outside of Winslow. I remembered bits and pieces of the place. It had been seven years since I'd last been there, and I didn't know if a different family had moved in, or if it was abandoned and just sitting there, or what. And it wasn't that I necessarily wanted to find out, but something was calling me there. I awoke one night, and I just needed to go. It was the weirdest thing.

Sam hadn't returned, but I had mostly expected that. Whatever happened between us, it was intense, Scoured with underlying emotions and secrets. Being around him caused me a lot of anxiety and never knowing anything because he wouldn't tell me didn't help.

I was trying to convince myself him leaving was a good thing, that I didn't miss him.

It wasn't as effective as I hoped it to be.

I pulled up to a small familiar ramshackle house. Being a single parent working as a grocery bagger at the local grocery store and a night janitor at the Senior Living Home didn't pay an exceptional amount. I felt a clump of emotion clog my throat. But my father had always smiled. Even when he looked so tired he couldn't have wanted to do anything but sleep for nine days straight, he still made me dinner and read me my bed-time story, and tucked me in.

He was superman.

Yeah, maybe then. But now he's in prison, and that's the reality.

Harsh. But still true.

I sucked in a deep breath and slid out of my car, locking it securely behind me. The neighborhood hadn't been the safest place seven years ago. I wasn't taking any chances now.

I shoved my hands in my jacket pockets. The sky was a sheet of grey and the air felt like snow. I didn't have much time. I hurried up the cracked sidewalk and through the chain-link fence edging the perimeter of the property. It didn't look like anybody had taken residence in the crumbling structure. The garden my dad had been so proud of sat gritty and dead by the steps leading up to the front door. I remembered a time when the petunias that were planted there were vibrant and colorful. Now they were just wilted and . . . Dead.

Like everything else seemed to be.

I stopped before the door, hanging limply on its hinges. I wrinkled my nose at the place. It was really falling apart, nearly unlivable. I pushed through the narrow entryway and onto the brittle flooring. The smell of mold and must hit me like a brick wall. Ew. Scratch that. Definitely unlivable.

My feet carried me to the spot without my consent. My subconscious seemed to have a journey in mind, something I was not privy to. The space held a different air about it, one more ominous and pressing. The dried blood was still vaguely present. I shivered, turning away and walking elsewhere.

Why the hell did I come back to this place? There had to be more good memories than bad, and yet the few bad ones that existed were large and daunting enough to overshadow the good.

I found the creaky steps and grabbed the loose railing, climbing cautiously up them. My room was the first room in sight. Farther along the hall was a bathroom and then my dad's. It was a basic house with all the basic rooms. Nothing more, nothing less.

Flicking on the light in my room, I was mildly surprised to find the small space was much the same as I had left it; a bed shoved up against a corner, the blankets slightly rumpled. The flickering bulb overhead was the only source of light, illuminating a crooked desk and a battered guitar my father had bought me from the Good Will shop when I was young. I walked passed a pile of my clothes stacked up on a wood bench-I never did have a closet or a dresser to put them in-and picked up the guitar. I was severely musically-handicapped. But Sam, he had been amazing. I remembered bringing him up here for the first time. He had spotted the guitar and asked if he could play it.

"And this is my room," I told him, flopping down on the frayed comforter. I kicked off my shoes, always worn out from a rough day of fifth grade.

Sam stepped through the doorway, beanie on his head and brown hair curling out of it. He still had his backpack on his shoulders.

"What do you think?" I asked, lacing my hands behind my head. Sam nodded approvingly, dropping his bag to the floor by my desk.

"I like it," he said. "It's very-you."

I smiled widely, sitting up and crossing my legs beneath me. "So how's high school?"

He grunted. "Taxing and long. How's elementary school?"

"Taxing and long."

He laughed. "Aw, come on, it is not."

I cast him a droll look. "I just want to get to middle school already. Is that any better?"

"No," he deadpanned. "I thought it was worse." He smiled again, eyes flickering to the side. They widened when they spotted the instrument. "Hey, is this yours?"

I watched him pick up the guitar, running his hands over the wood like it was pure gold. "Yeah," I told him, and then quieter, "my dad bought it for me."

I closed my eyes at the memory, hugging the instrument to my chest. I lived in the same house for nearly a year after the incident with my Aunt, and after that when her cancer started progressing I had moved in with her. Luckily she didn't live that far away.

"Do you mind if I play it?" Sam asked, stroking the rusty strings.

I shrugged. "I mean, it's not in the best of shape but sure. I never could learn."

He took the time tuning it, and while he did I retrieved some science and math homework to do. I had been reviewing fractions, my worst area. For about five minutes it was the sound of him tuning the strings, and then he began to play.

And I thought I would fall off the bed.

It was some Spanish tune, sharp and precise. His eyes were closed as he played, squeezed tightly as if he was in deep concentration. I sat in awe of his fingers flying effortlessly over the fret board and strings. The movement was so natural, so beautiful. I had never heard anything more wonderful in my life.

"That was amazing," I breathed when he finished. A corner of his lips edged upward.

"Thanks," he murmured, setting down the guitar. "I played a lot before, started when I was really young. It's been a while, though."

Fractions totally forgotten I walked over, wondering how anybody could make such a sound out of the thing. "Well, I would never know," I stated. "How did you do that?"

"Practice," he said.

I shook my head. "No, I've practiced and I still sound horrendous. That was just awesome."

He blushed slightly. Back then he was never one for compliments of any kind. "Thanks, Elsie."

"No problem." I reached back to retrieve my homework. "Now, how are you with fractions?"

I returned the guitar to its previous position, but I would come back for it. I would bring it with me.

Seeing nothing else of importance in my room, I headed out and down the hall to my father's. What I expected to find, I didn't know. Maybe clues or hints of the murderer he so clearly nursed inside of him? Answers as to why he would do such a thing with a daughter still so clearly dependent on him?

The light in his room was shoddy, casting the space in eerie darkness. Even when I lived in the house with my Aunt, she had forbid me from going in the room. I didn't blame her. I hadn't wanted to, either.

The cloud cover loomed heavy and thick, and I was starting to think maybe I wouldn't make it in time. That didn't exactly leave the option of hotels, because I didn't have the money. Maybe I could sleep in my car. I sure as hell wasn't sleeping in this house. Too many bad memories.

It was a messy kind of disorganization, my father to the T. I treaded on the rumpled rug, eyes scouring the room for anything. Maybe something to prove he didn't do it? To prove his innocence? A long-shot and farfetched, but that didn't mean I couldn't hope.

I stopped by his bed-side table, smiling sadly when I picked up the small frame. It was a picture of me on his shoulders. I couldn't have been any older than five. I was smiling so wide and he was laughing hard. I had a baseball cap on my head. That was something we loved to do together. He would always put a little money to the side and let it accumulate overtime, and we would catch a bus to the nearest stadium and watch a game.

The good 'ole days.

I set the picture down and crossed the room to his suitcase. It was lying open on another table, clothes and papers scattered around it. A suitcase? Why would he have a suitcase? We never traveled.

Fishing my phone out of my pocket, I used the glowing screen to work by, rifling through the contents. There were definitely enough clothes for a significant stay, that was for sure. The only question was this: where was he going?

I picked up a large yellow envelope, the kind that you would mail to somebody. A tiny lamp was situated by the suitcase as well. When I clicked the button it snapped on, enough light to read by. I sat on the edge of his bed with the envelope in my hands. There wasn't any writing on it. He must have run out of time to mail it.

I slid my finger beneath the seal and flicked it opened. I dumped the contents on his mattress. There was a picture of me, along with two papers. Frowning, I regarded the picture first. It was my fifth grade school picture. I knew because my father had convinced me to wear that hideous dress with the puffy sleeves and ruffled neckline. God, that was such a mistake. But I was still smiling brightly, the freckles that were so prominent when I was younger sticking out.

I slid the picture back into the envelope and picked up one of the two papers bundled with it. Interesting. I appeared to be holding some kind of letter. But it wasn't addressed to anybody.

I'm sorry, was the starting line, for any inconvenience on my part. However, I feel my current environment is unfit to raise a daughter in. Let nothing in our past disrupt the present, as I know whatever lack of love we have for each other is doubled in amount for Elsie. I'm hoping she can start over, in a safe place where an intelligent and special girl like her can thrive. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

It was signed with my father's signature, which caused my stomach to drop. Me. He was going to send me away? Where? And why the hell hadn't I known about this?

The last paper was nothing but a name and an address.

Holy shit.

I leaned forward, holding the yellowing parchment under the light to ensure I had read it right. I slapped a hand to my mouth, eyes widening. Because on that paper was a name I had only seen once. The name of a person I had never had contact with, of a face I had never seen, and a voice I'd never heard.

Marlene Johnson-Holliday. Santa Fe, New Mexico.

My mother.

And on it was a number.

He-he was going to send me to live with my mother. Even though he never mentioned her once to me, going about his life as if she had never existed, he had been planning to send me there without my consent.

Why?

I stuffed everything back in the folder, quickly, sealing it back up and shoving it under my arm. I left his room as fast as possible. Out of the house. I needed out of that house desperately.

I grabbed the guitar out of my room on the way and practically ran through the front door. I cursed under my breath when I realized it was already beginning to snow. I stashed the guitar in the back and tossed the envelope on the passenger side seat. I buckled in and stayed put for a moment, engine humming beneath my feet. Think, Elsie, think. Where to go?

One place came to mind.

"You're either crazy or desperate," I muttered to myself, pulling away from the curb and starting on the main drag. I was quite possibly both.

Ten minutes it took to reach his house. By then the snow was blanketing the ground. Across the street I saw kids playing in the snow without coats on, a mother scolding them and telling them to come inside before she grounded them. A little ways down a woman was running with her dog, trying to reach home before she was caught in the blinding blizzard. I refocused my attention on the house I was in front of. It appeared uninhabited as well, though in drastically greater shape. He was in the higher-end portion of the neighborhood.

I cut the engine and hopped out, deciding at the last second to take the envelope with me. I made a mad dash for the front door, sending up a small prayer when it wasn't locked. I sought refuge inside, deciding to call out anyway and make sure there were no squatters. Even though I guessed I was technically one, too. When nobody responded I locked the door and trod into the house. I had been to his house three times. When he had fixed me up the day I met him, and two times after that when my father hadn't been home and I forgot my key. We always stayed in the kitchen or the living room. He told me I wasn't allowed to go anywhere else.

I trailed my hand along the peeling wallpaper, stopping at the base of the stairs.

Except for that last time. The last time he ever allowed me in his house. When he had gone to take a call in the kitchen and I had wandered.

"I have to take a call, Els. Why don't you drop your stuff off in the living room and pick out a movie?"

"Okay!" I agreed readily, and we parted ways. I dumped my backpack by the couch. I heard Sam speaking into the phone, and when I was sure he was consumed in the conversation I snuck off to sneak a peek in his room. Ever the curious child, all I wanted was a look. I always had quite the fantastical imagination. You could only imagine what reasons I came up with for why Sam wouldn't allow me upstairs.

I crept up as quietly as I could, feeling giddy and bursting with adrenaline. It wasn't that I wanted to go against Sam's wishes. It was the fact that I was ten and stupid and curious. There I was doing something I shouldn't, acting like a spy, and I thought it was super cool.

When I reached the top of the staircase, I was met with the dilemma of which one would be Sam's room. I didn't think a lot of things through back then.

All of the doors on the upper level had either been open or cracked, except for one, and something told me that would be the winner. I rushed toward it, but before I could a man stepped out from an adjacent room and blocked my path. I ran right into him, stumbling back.

"Whoa," he chuckled. "Watch it there, little girl."

An uneasy feeling swept through me, something I couldn't explain, when I glanced up at his face. Sam's uncle. That was the only time I had seen him. I knew he had one but Sam didn't like to talk about him, for reasons I never questioned. I was a "let it be" kind of kid. "S-sorry," I stammered out.

A smile curved his lips, one that didn't meet his eyes as those intense abysmal depths raked their gaze over me. "No worries," he cooed. "A simple mistake."

I licked my lips, nodding. Everything within me was screaming to get out of there but I couldn't move. My feet were glued to the ground.

Meanwhile Sam's uncle kept walking forward. "What are you doing up here all by yourself?"

"I-I don't-" my words trailed off when I felt someone step up behind me. I snapped my gaze up and immediately relaxed when I realized it was Sam.

I had been so overwhelmed with relief and guilt and embarrassment that I hadn't looked at the situation closely.

Sam had glared at his uncle, in a cold way that would give anybody the heebie-jeebies. He grabbed my hand in a tight hold and pushed me slightly behind him. "Sorry, Uncle Henry," he had ground out. "Didn't mean to disturb your work."

But the man's eyes, those black holes for eyes, had peered around Sam's form seeking me out. "Don't worry about it, Samuel."

Sam's grip tightened and he dragged me back down the stairs. He was rigid, angry. At the time I thought he had been angry at me.

But looking back, he wasn't. He was scared. The look in his brown eyes was one of panic and worry and relief.

"I told you not to go up there!" he shouted at me once we were in his living room.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I was still a bit shaken.

"Christ, Elsie," he muttered, pacing back and forth as he ruffled his hair with his fingers. "When I make a request I have a reason for making it. Okay?"

He finally turned to look at me, and he must have seen the tears in my eyes because he cursed quietly and gave me a tight hug.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I'm sorry for yelling at you. Just don't go up there again, alright?"

I nodded against his chest. "Okay."

And I never did get the chance. Because he never took me back.

I felt like I was bounced back to that day as I ascended the stairs. I could hear the wind howling outside, pounding against the sides of the house. Blizzard conditions. That was what the weatherman had forecasted. A nice, old fashioned white-out.

Unlike my house, I knew full-well where I was going. I strode purposefully straight down the hall, turning the knob of Sam's closed door. It was always closed. I stepped through, heart pounding, no idea what I would expect-

Certainly not for it to be so normal.

A secret hide-out, an arsenal, a stash, maybe hundreds of dollars in stolen cash. Kind of fantastical but along the lines of what I had been expecting for all the secrecy he had shrouded his room in.

"This is it?" I murmured, switching on the light. Like most every kid he had a bed, and he had a desk and a dresser. That was it. There was nothing on his floor, nothing anywhere, save for a crinkled Metallica poster on the wall.

I imagined Sam walking in here every night. He would change, go to the bathroom to brush his teeth and take a shower, and crawl beneath the bed. He would lie there, and what? Did dreams keep him up? Was he one of those people that took hours to fall asleep? Did he drop like a log the moment his head hit the pillow? Was he a light sleeper, or a heavy one?

I wanted to know these, suddenly. He was gone and because of that I had the strongest urge to learn all these things about him I didn't know.

I peeked through his curtains and saw the snow swirling down. Yep, just as I thought.

It was late, and looking at the bed sent weariness seeping through my bones. I still had the yellow envelope in my hands, and the curiosity had been nagging the back of my mind since I found it.

It might end up being a huge mistake, but I just had to try it.

I retrieved my phone and the slip of paper with the woman's number. My palms were sweaty with nerves as I dialed it in. I licked my lips as I pressed the phone to my ear, hearing it ring.

It rang four times before she answered.

"This is Marlene speaking, how may I help you?"

Marlene.

My mom.

Your mother.

"Hello? Is anybody there?"

My eyes widened. Shit. What was I supposed to do? What did I say?

In the end I ended up just hanging up and nearly throwing the phone on his nightstand. I shoved the paper back in the envelope and set it aside. I furrowed beneath Sam's blankets, resting my head on his pillow and taking a long inhale. Holy crap, it still smelled like him. Like pine and lemons, the scent of his shampoo.

I closed my eyes and readied myself for a long night, but Sam's wonderful scent wrapped around me like an assuring embrace, and soon it sent me right off to sleep.